


What sprouts from my heart

by Inkivaarinen



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: -Ish, English is not writer's native language, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Librarian Jon, Loneliness, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No Fear Entities (The Magnus Archives), Not Canon Compliant, Not beta read we kayak like Tim, Possible horniness in the future, Slow Burn, Some Heavy Themes, Stardew Valley AU, Will add tags as I go, Will there be an actual plot? Who knows, farmer Martin, jonmartin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkivaarinen/pseuds/Inkivaarinen
Summary: Martin had forgotten that he had a grandfather. He had only vague memories about the farm and the lovely little rural town he visited when he was a child.A letter arrives, and Martin decides to finally take his life into his own hands. Never mind that he had not farmed anything in his life. But he had taken on jobs with no experience before, so it shouldn’t be so hard… Right?Meanwhile, one Jonathan Sims struggles as a sudden promotion has made him Head Librarian, shortly after his transfer to Pelican Town. His predecessor has fled, the display shelves are empty, and the library is in disarray… And oh, apparently there’s a new farmer in the valley and the townsfolk won’t shut up about him.The Stardew Valley AU nobody asked for.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 40
Kudos: 81





	What sprouts from my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes stupid ideas appear to you when you play Stardew Valley, and you decide to write a fic about it.  
> I'm twisting the world a bit to my needs, and characters from both the game and the podcast will appear in the future.
> 
> This fic is not beta-read, and English is not my native language, so I apologize if there are strange sentence structures or other oddities!
> 
> The first chapter is a bit grim.

A steady hum of air con and the sound of keyboards clacking was all around him. Nobody talked, every worker isolated in their own little cubicle devoid of personal touch. Corporate rule number 23: no cluttering your desk with unnecessary things such as photographs or plants. Corporate rule 35: no unnecessary chatter, as it cuts into productivity. Even their breaks were separately timed, so it was hard so socialise with one another.

Martin had become a little numb to it all, truth be told. 

Wake up. Commute. Work. Run around doing whatever Peter decided to want on a whim that day. Commute. Eat a ready meal for one. (Once a week: try to phone his mother. She won’t answer.) Try to sleep.

Rinse and repeat.

But one day the repetitiveness is interrupted abruptly, in the form of a letter. A heavy one, the envelope thick and of good quality, sealed with red wax, and his name and address written on the back with flowing cursive. Only the stamp, picturing a cartoony highland cow, breaks the overall impressiveness of it a little.

With confusion written on his face, Martin picked up the letter from the pile that sat on his desk. He had forwarded his mail to his work address, as his flat was being fumigated due to an infestation of bugs, and he didn’t trust the motel he was staying in quite enough to handle his mail.

Martin cracked the seal, unfolded the letter, and read it. Then read it a second time, mouth partially open and eyes widening.

“Blackwood!” 

He flinched and quickly shoved the letter inside a drawer. Someone dropped a heavy folder onto his desk with a dull thud.

“These papers you turned in yesterday.”

“Yes?” Martin craned his neck upwards, meeting the gaze of Peter Lukas, his immediate boss.

“They are all messed up, I need you to do them again.”

Martin’s shoulders slumped a bit.

“And I need them on my desk by Friday!” Peter added with a tone that was way too cheery. The bastard was enjoying this. 

“Of course, Peter.” Martin tried not to let the tightness in his throat affect his voice. It had taken him well over a week, unpaid overtime included, to finish the report he was now clutching against his chest like a shield against Peter, knuckles turning white.

“Atta boy.”

He left as quickly as he had come, disappearing behind the corner with silent steps. Martin shivered. It was almost unnatural how quiet and unnoticeable Peter managed to be when he wanted, almost appearing from thin air when he decided to announce his presence. He had fired more than one employee by surprising them when they were doing something that was not accepted by corporate rules.

Martin sighed and rubbed his temples, craving a strong cup of tea. Hell, maybe even coffee by the way this day was turning. But it was not break time yet, so he just had to endure. (Corporate rule 24: no open containers at working areas.)

His mind drifted back to the letter that was nestled in his drawer. The date on the letter itself was older; either it had gotten lost in the mail until now, or the sender had waited before mailing it.

The sender…

Martin fiddled the folder with shaky hands.

_He had a grandfather._

Well, not anymore, as it became clear from the letter that he had passed away, but…

Martin _had_ had a grandfather. From his father’s side. Someone whose existence he was barely aware of, only very faint memories from his early childhood tickling the corners of his mind.

When his father had left him and his mother, any talk about his father or anything that tied to him became quickly forbidden by his mother. That included his paternal grandparents. And as his grandparents from his mother’s side had died before he was born, he had simply _forgotten_ the fact that he had a grandparent at all. A surge of anger towards his mother tried to rear its head, but it quickly turned into anger towards himself. How could he just forget a family member?

Despite not having contact for decades, Martin’s grandfather had not forgotten about him. 

He had left him the deed to his farm in some distant valley in the countryside. Martin swallowed the thick feeling in his throat as vague memories of greenery, of soft farm animals, and homemade food aplenty flashed in his mind. Memories of the farm that was now his. He could…

_You wouldn’t take on such a risky prospect, abandoning a steady pay that (just) covers your and your poor mother’s bills? Such a selfish boy._

He shook the voice from his head and opened the folder Peter had left behind.

Get through the day. Think later.

For two months, the letter and the deed sat untouched in Martin’s drawer. He was too busy to think about it during the day, being wrung out dry as he tried to meet the ridiculous demands of Peter, papers and reports piling on his desk, two new projects sprouting when he had finished one. He needed the money, he reminded himself when the workload threatened to become too much. His mother’s nursing fees ate a lion’s share of his income, and rent in the city was high, no matter how tiny and shitty your flat was. At least he had managed to negotiate with his landlord, and for the time being he didn’t have to pay full rent for his flat on top of the motel fees. The greedy old man had first insisted on full rent, but Martin hadn’t budged on the matter. Paying a ridiculous fee for the storage unit where he kept his belongings was already a too great a hit for his meagre savings.

But the deed did come to his mind every now and then. Mostly when he was on the brink of sleep, teetering on the edge of waking world and dreams. He wondered what it would be like, to own his own farm. What would he grow? Would he prefer raising animals? He did like animals a lot, but his lease didn’t allow pets. Would the food taste better if he knew he grew the ingredients himself? _Could_ he grow anything at all or would he just fail like always-

It was a source of both comfort and pain, daydreaming of something so easy to reach, yet so unattainable.

_Selfish boy._

Martin fell into an uneasy sleep.

There was a beach in front of him. Martin stood in the shallow waters, the icy sea water lapping at his calves. The sky was clear, and the moon illuminated him with silvery light, yet fog was raising from the water, its misty tendrils curling around him. It felt comfortable, like a tender caress. He unfurled his fingers, letting the mist slip through them. The water was up to his knees now, but Martin didn’t mind. The cold stinged at first, but soon his skin grew numb to it.

He raised his eyes.

On the beach was a man.

An old man, tall and burly, with a long grey beard and familiar looking seafoam eyes. His skin was tan and leathery, and years of laugh lines crinkled his face.

Martin wanted to call out to him, but he couldn’t; the mist was curling around his throat.

The water was up to his waist.

The man on the beach opened his arms to him, beckoning Martin forward, and those familiar eyes shone with the light of a hundred starts.

The water was up to his chest. He wanted to step forward, to accept the warm embrace, but to his horror something was tugging him back. The icy water had numbed him, the fog had hidden the water from his view, and now dozens of hands were grabbing at his legs, at his clothes, anchoring him to the spot.

The water was to his throat-

The old man shook his head, a saddened look on his face.

Seawater rising past his mouth-

Martin wanted to shout, to beg for the man not to leave.

Fog and water rushed over his head, and the wordless murmur underwater sang to him with bittersweetness, his lungs burned and the salt stinged his eyes-

Martin woke up with a heaving gasp, eyes blinking in the darkness, until he recognized the noise that had woken him as his phone ringing on the bedside table. He fumbled with his glasses, his heart leaping half-way to his throat when he checked the caller ID. It was his mother’s nursing home. He brought the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Mister Blackwood?” It was one of the nurses.

“Er, yes, this is he.” His voice was groggy, and he had to clear his throat.

“I’m terribly sorry to call this early, but I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news regarding your mother…”

An hour later Martin was washing his tear streaked face in the small motel bathroom. The dingy overhead light was sputtering. As he looked into the dirty mirror, a pair of seafoam eyes stared back at him. A lone sob got caught in his throat.

After two weeks that had felt like an eternity stretched thin, Martin watched as his mother was laid to the earth. He had expected heavy rain and black umbrellas, sombre faces and many tears shed, like he had seen in movies. Instead, the air was clear and crisp, the harsh sunlight making him blink several times, and the only faces around him were those of the priest and a representative from the nursing home. Having done plenty of crying over his mother for his whole life, Martin’s cheeks stayed dry for once, a dull throbbing behind his eyes telling that he had no more tears to shed.

He was tired, head full of static, having rarely found the time to rest. His waking hours were crammed full of work and taking care of the funeral arrangements and all the legalities, and he didn’t find much rest during night-time either. He still dreamt of the beach and the old man with his seafoam eyes, of numerous hands dragging him back and seawater closing over his head. Some nights he fought back, almost reaching the shore before he woke up. Other nights, he let himself be dragged under the waves, too tired to care.

A week before his mother’s funeral it all had come to a culmination, all the stress and weariness and ugly feelings finally reaching their boiling point.

He had asked for some time off to attend his mother’s funeral. Not even a whole day, just half of his shift. Peter had declined, saying that the firm was closing a deal with an important client soon, and that they needed all the manpower right now, and would he mind taking on some overtime this week?

Now, Martin had fantasized about quitting many times. In these fantasies, he shouted at Peter, finally stunning him into silence, airing out all the fucked up (and pretty surely illegal) things Peter had demanded of him, giving the man the dressing down he deserved, and finally leaving the office with applauses following him throughout the building.

Instead, he simply dropped his two weeks’ notice onto Peter’s desk and cleared out his own drawers, tucking the letter with the deed securely to his breast pocket. After his mother’s funeral, he contacted the number on the letter, and set things in motion. At least most of his possessions were already packed.

The night before the move he dreamt of the beach, washed in warm sunlight. He was a child, around four years old, cheek smattered with freckles, and hair wild and windswept. He walked along the shoreline, picking shiny stones and shells into his little bucket. He proudly presented his loot to a huge figure walking next to him; whose large warm hand settled on his head and ruffled his curls. His grandfather’s eyes glittered like the stones in the shallow waters, and his rumbling laughter was warm and full of love.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dedicating this fic to the three people that yelled in my tumblr tags when I half-jokingly started posting about this.
> 
> Martin, sweetie, I'm sorry for the torture. I promise you will get soft and good things in the future.
> 
> Next chapter; we meet Jon!  
> Comments are appreciated and welcomed!


End file.
